Chapter 1
My first love gave me a blue rose. He pinned it to my prom dress with a shaking hand. The woman taking our photograph teased him about being nervous. She couldn’t have known the reason he was shaking.
He went along with it, because that’s the kind of guy he was. He made a joke about getting to first base, then he turned his back to the camera and asked for a minute. I could see the tears gleaming in his eyes.
Looking down at me, he said, “You’ll make a beautiful bride.”
“I shouldn’t have picked this dress.”
“No, it’s perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
He kissed me, and then he turned around again to pose for our photo.
The whole night, girls kept coming up to admire my dress. The strapless gown was pale blue, but looked white under the lighting set up in the gym.
“This dress is so wrong,” I kept saying.
Every time, he’d give me that tender look and say, “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
He died two months after graduation, and I died with him. My friends who’d gone through breakups said they understood completely. They promised I’d get over it.
Years passed, and then a decade.
What does that even mean, to get over something?
Does it mean that one day you can sell a corsage to a young man in a tuxedo, and not feel bottomless sorrow?
Chapter 2
I’m almost crying. A bundle of blue roses sits before me on the prep counter. I hold still, waiting for the tears that always come with the memories. But they don’t come.
I pick up one rose, cupping the blossom in my palm as I strip the thorns off with a knife.
I’m not crying, so maybe I’m finally over it. Over the loss of my first love. And it only took ten years.
Another possibility is that my tear ducts haven’t recovered from last night’s sad movie marathon. Movies where the dog dies should come with an Ugly Cry warning label. Now my tear ducts are probably permanently damaged. My eyes feel itchy.
I blink hard, waiting for something to happen.
The door chime lets out a chirp. Someone’s walking into the flower shop.
By the sound of the boots, it’s a man, and not a small one.
My eyes go first to the boots. They’re big.
Next, my eyes climb up his jeans. And what a climb it is, over long legs and muscled thighs. My pulse quickens.
The visuals get even yummier. He’s wearing a black shirt with a bike logo, stretched tight across huge muscles.
He turns his body sideways to squeeze past the ferns.
Damn it, he’s perfection.
The sight of his strong, square jaw in profile makes my palms sweat.
That’s funny, because big, manly men aren’t my type at all. I usually go for skinny geeks, because I’m more comfortable.
When I see a bunch of muscles, I get stupid and giggly. I can’t even buy men’s underwear as a Christmas present for someone, because the hunky beefcake on the packaging makes me feel funny.
This guy looks artfully scruffy, like an actor between movies. He’s got about a week’s worth of beard, light brown like his wavy hair.
I’ve never seen this man before, but I know exactly who he is.
Luca Lowell.
He steps up to the flower shop’s counter, and I stop breathing.
The man has the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They point right at me like headlights. I can no longer inhale or exhale. Luca Lowell’s eyes are the definition of breathtaking.
“I see I’ve caught you at a bad time,” he says.
His voice is deep, yet surprisingly gentle, given his gruff appearance. He looks like the kind of guy who doesn’t need a beer bottle opener. He’d use those big fists of his, or his teeth.
“This isn’t a bad time.” I pick up another rose and whip the knife through the thorns. “I’m just stripping.”
He looks over the counter, down at my feet. “No, you’re not stripping.”
I can feel the heat of his gaze as he looks at my tennis shoes, then up my bare legs to my jean shorts. He raises his eyebrows and continues his sightseeing journey, over my red scoop-necked shirt.
He looks with interest at my curly, medium-brown hair, which falls around my shoulders in my usual style. Most people think I have a perm or use rollers, but my hair’s naturally curly, and I don’t fight nature anymore.
His eyes linger on my neck, and then my lips. I curse myself for not putting on lipstick after eating lunch—not that I usually wear makeup to work.
Watching my mouth, he says, “If you think this is stripping, you’re doing it all wrong.”
I drop the flowers and knife from my hands in a fit of giggles.
Giggles, for crying out loud? Tina, pull yourself together. You’re almost thirty!